


My Roommate is a Blaseball Player

by longhairQ



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Finding a new home, Friendship, blaseball - Freeform, canada moist talkers, sunken halifax
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:07:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 19,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25791832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/longhairQ/pseuds/longhairQ
Summary: A traveler finds an open listing for an apartment in the city of Sunken Halifax, in what is left of Flooded Nova Scotia.  Free rent, by Greer Lott.  In a world dominated by Blaseball players, worlds shifting inside out, and things that happen for just no reason, they try to carve a new life for themselves out of everything they were comfortable with.This fic is safe for work, will not feature any major violence or sexual activity without content warnings at the top, and will be for anyone capable participating in Blaseball.  That being said, please be aware that this fic contains several alternative humanoids, such as humans with non-human features, masses of consciousness in entirely non-humanized forms, and other forms of sentience.
Comments: 13
Kudos: 44
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	1. No Place Like Sunken Halifax

In the posting, she asked to meet at a café in town. " _peregrino_ ", she texted. " _it's down by the flooded parking lot on the south side of Quinpool, it smells like caramel and i'll be wearing a Talkers hat. you can't miss it._ "

If I could count the amount of times that I smelled caramel in this weird, damp city, I'd have a math degree. 

Turning a corner in Sunken Halifax was like walking through bomb after bomb of sensory overload. The sweet smell of candy and chocolate would follow me down the road long after I had plugged my nose. My shoes were soaked by constantly moving water, no matter how shallow it seemed, and my skin was starting to feel the cold. People were scream-laughing pretty much everywhere, talking loud enough that I could hear their words without understanding their conversation. I kept walking under giant, tilted buildings that had settled into their neighbors, with the little streams of the sun that barely crawled their way in through breaks in the levees. The trek through Quebec--or Nunavut, I couldn't remember the stupid province names--was bad enough just to get here, but it was all going to be worth it. New start, new me, and the rent was free.

Anything to get away from the Hellmouth.

I stopped to ask someone sloshing by if they could just tell me where to get to Peregrino, or even where Quinpool was, and they responded by saying that the water knows where you need to go so you should really just follow the current, and also it's polite to Google local customs before you come to the city, not that I'm calling you rude, but it could help out a lot. I smiled and gave my best apology and stamped away, dipped a finger in the water underneath my shoe since I couldn't really make out much in the weird bobbing lantern-lights, and found a direction to go--a knee deep street with a single-person canoe, and a sign that said "free paddling".

"Take me away," I say, just under my breath.

The water splashes at the back of my ankles to respond.

I started rowing; not that it seemed to be doing anything. The water kind of just moved the untied paddle-boat along whatever current it had decided to go, and I really didn't have a choice in the matter. I flipped out my phone in the other hand and looked at the listing again. 2500 square foot apartment, south of Quinpool, one roommate, two bedrooms, two bathrooms. Rent and utilities free. Must be a cool person. A cool person. I don't think I've had a solid conversation with anyone in the past month, and I'm neck deep in moisture from gods know where. It's really strange to see that people were just constantly okay with getting wet, around here. It wasn't even just Halifax--Canada, in general, was this kind of swampy, moist mess covered in water pretty much everywhere you went, and folks were just okay with it, I guess? They drove through it, laughed through it, and I swear I saw a few of them get submerged deep under and just walk out the other side without even pausing the conversation. Maybe I just need new clothes.

I passed by a couple walking through what looked like a mangrove forest, each of the branches gently drooping from spindling vines that crawled up bent and broken lampposts, towards slivers of sunshine that pierced through the still dark. I passed by moss marching slowly up the side of a battered and broken concrete department-store-turned-restaurant. I passed by a pipe that gushed water that sparkled with bobbing lanterns slowly making their patrols throughout the city. Then, I smelled caramel.

It was a different kind of caramel than I was used to, at this point. That sweet, stick to the back of your tongue flavor felt synthetic and chewy; this one smelled nutty, toasted, and warm, like roasting a marshmallow over an open flame. I turned my head to a neon glow, and read the light out loud.

"Peregrino," I mouthed, the wind barely escaping my lips. It wasn't a bruised or broke-down place like so many I had passed, but it still looked as ramshackle as anything else. Mismatched brick tile on the front side covered up old wood, and a concrete side wall had hanging moss creeping off the top. Windows, without glass, gently letting the little breezes in; I guess they didn't care about the water. I sloshed out of the paddleboat, and stood at the entrance. I looked across at the spaces at the front, saw groups at some tables collectively nursing paper cups, until I saw a fly on the wall with her feet on a table and a hat on her shoulder. "M.T." it read in red; the initials of Canada's premier Blaseball team, the Moist Talkers, with blue and white accents to boot.

"I've never seen one like that in the merchandise shops," I said, clumsily breaking the silence while keeping my footing on the wet, orange-and-white tile. "Are you Greer?"

There was no response. She didn't even move to acknowledge me. Her face faced the open air, betraying nothing about her demeanor. Had I not made a cool enough impression?

"Uh, I used to have some Sunbeams jerseys. No-Stars Lars, and all that. I heard they were the old ones, from back when they started it the first time," I spilled out, my tongue moving on its own. I swallowed, not good at silence. Need to make conversation. I should really sit down.

"And, um. I wasn't just into the big names. I liked--y'know--uh, number..." I scrabbled around in my brain to find a specific memory. "Shoot. Zack Sanders?" I offered, my posture practically prostrated in front of her.

She snorted. I froze.

She turned her head over. I gasped.

Her eyes were closed and her mouth was barely open. A drop of drool dripped from the side of her face. She snored.

I buried my head and my hands and exhaled with everything I had left.


	2. Greer with the Shark Teeth

She snorted. I froze.

She turned her head over. I gasped.

Her eyes were closed and her mouth was barely open. A drop of drool dripped from the side of her face. She snored.

I buried my head and my hands and exhaled with everything I had left.

A cacophony of throat sounds, sniffles, and coughs make themselves present on the other side of the table. I look up, and I see my table companion lift their body up from the back of the chair, open their eyes, and spit into the water outside. Then, she looks back out of a side-eye, studies my face, and grins. Her jagged, pointy teeth remind me of a shark I saw in the aquarium when I was a teenager; her expression reminds me that I am very much out of my element.

I swallow. "Hi. Good... uh, morning," I sputter out. My skin turns cold as her eyes, full-black, glisten with my reflection.

"You look a lot worse than the photo you have. Are you sure this is you?" she asks, pulling up my profile picture with a smooth motion. It's me, sitting on a balcony at a hotel just south of the Moab, taken by a friend that just couldn't let go of the new landscape. You could even see where the old stadium was swallowed up from over my left shoulder. I was grinning. I was dry.

"Yeah, that's me. Are you Greer?" I look away from the photo, memories reaching out of the screen, laced with regret and nostalgia.

"Yup. Greer Lott. I own the place we're heading to later," she says, sweeping her phone back into her pocket. She leans over the side of the table, and I lean over in the other direction to a lesser degree. She picks up her hat, cast aside by her awakening, and sets it back on the table, "M.T." facing me. 

Suddenly, she studies the table, and her eyebrows furrow. She stands, table rocketing into my abdomen, and yells. "Peregrino! Where's my coffee?! I asked for an orange latte!" Her scanning eyes come to rest on a stocky, scaly person behind the counter, figure hidden by espresso machinery, who raises their nose just enough to reveal small spectacles atop of a strongly-bridged nose.

"You were sleeping, idiot," they say. "Not a great way to consume hot coffee."

"Is it supposed to be a safety issue, stupid?!" Lott shouts, intensity draining. She suddenly looks down at me, shoulder-length hair sweeping across one side of her face. "Do you want anythin'?" she asks, in a calmer voice.

"Can I get the same as you?" I ask. I've never seen orange coffee before.

She grins, sharp teeth gleaming, looks back up, shouts for two, sits back down, looks at me. "Hope you didn't get too lost. The city can get kind of weird if you don't know what you're doing," she says, with animated gestures, hands all over the place. "Most folks here haven't left the sunken part before, so we're all used to it."

I smile with a little bit of relief. "It was weird trying to find my way around. How can you tell where to go?" I ask, hoping there's some actual advice that isn't just following the current.

She gives me a look, eyebrows raised. "You didn't Google the local customs before you came?"

My smile quickly fades and my eyebrow twitches.

She laughs, my discomfort deepens, but my heart relaxes. She smiles, and says, "Well, I'll guess it was a busy road. Where'd'ya come from?"

"Uhh, the old Moab."

"The Hellmouth? Seems like everyone there likes it."

I look away from her black eyes, but I hear her breath stop for a second.

"No worries. Sometimes places just meant to be left alone."

"Thanks."

I look out the gap on my left side, watching the water flow the opposite way I came. The boat has gone at this point, but people keep stepping through knee-deep streams and chatting. It's a busy side of town, Quinpool. At least, it seemed it; I could see people in the opposite building, some shopping at little pop-up stands, some playing in the water. Kids with toys, people with snacks.

Two paper cups land on the side of the table. Greer cracks the top off hers before taking a full-mouth swig. 

I crack the top off mine to peek. "It's not orange."

Greer looks at me with a half-smile. "It definitely tastes like orange."

Wait. Is it supposed to be a flavor? I sip the coffee and, sure enough, that citrus taste comes rushing in, stinging the front of my tongue with haste, as the heat of the coffee pools into the sides of my mouth. I swallow, feeling strange. "I've never had fruit in coffee before."

"That's weird. It's definitely a good thing to try at least once," she says.

"Well, I do the usual stuff. Chocolate, vanilla, sugar, cream."

"Sounds kind of boring, honest."

I glare. She meets my eyes with reflective friendliness. I take another sip.

"What made you pick out my apartment?" she asks, taking another similar swig. Basically a half-cup empty at this point.

"Well," I start. "It's free."

"Well, yeah," she responds, rolling her eyes and sitting up straight. "But why here? Seems like crossing the distance would be hard enough to convince you otherwise."

"I mean, it was a long trip, but I've never been to Canada before," I say. Good to start with a truth. "I wanted to live in a new place," I continue, lying through my teeth.

"So, you decided to move'ta Canada for the thrill of uniqueness, and you haven't had fruit flavors in your coffee?" she asks, one eyebrow raised, the bottom half of her mouth covered by her cup. I know she's smiling under there.

What the hell? Why is she poking holes? "Yeah, and maybe the two don't have anything to do with each other," I say, putting as much emphasis on killing that look immediately. "What about you? Where were you before here?"

"Well, I was born here," she says, leaning back to look out at Quinpool's waterway. "Loved it from the start, kept lovin' it as I got older." She looks back at me. "Not Quinpool, specifically, but Halifax, definitely. I traveled a lot, and I went to Bishop's in Sherbrooke, but there are some things that just bring me home." Her hands rest on the Talkers hat.

"Oh, I was talking about that when you were asleep!"

"You were talking to me when I was asleep?"

"Well, yes, but, I hadn't seen a hat like that in the merch stores before," I say, finally happy to have some common ground.

"Oh, right. You a fan of the splort?" she says.

I open my mouth to speak, but something in her eyes catches me. The grin is more like a smile now, but less cheerful. More practiced. Did I put her on guard?

"Uh, yeah," I say. "Although, I don't know much about the Talkers. I was more of a Sunbeams fan." The corners of her expression relaxed just slightly. It probably didn't help that I was burning a hole into her eyes. "You must love them, that hat looks exclusive. It's really well made."

At that, she exhales, an almost-visible cloud of tension leaving the building. "Okay, looks like you're cool," she says, the grin returning, her eyes suddenly covered by her hair.

I blink. "What do you mean?" The listing said Must be a cool person. Did I pass? Was I being tested? If I was, that's a total jerk move, right?

She stands up, hat in hand, and slides it onto her brow. "I'm a pitcher for the Moist Talkers. Greer Lott, one and a half stars." 

"...Holy ████."


	3. Damp Vibes

"I'm a pitcher for the Moist Talkers. Greer Lott, one and a half stars." 

"...Holy ████."

The lights in the Peregrino café flicker gently in response to my shock. A Blaseball pitcher stands in front of me, in plain clothes, with an original team hat. Her toothy, jagged smile conveys all the enthusiasm for stunning me into complete silence. Mouth agape, memories of Sunbeams/Talkers games came flooding back, as my brain tried flipping through the pitchers I had seen. I knew Morse, I knew Good, but why isn't she there?

She walks over to the barista, talking to him for a minute, and then walks back. She unzips her jacket, clearly better made for the weather than I am, exposing her arms to the wet, cold air. One arm is sleeved with tattoos of corals, all the way up to her neck, peeking out over the hemline. The other, words, that I couldn't read from this distance. Both are shredded. She holds out the jacket.

"Sorry for the big reveal. Let's go have a walk," she says. "And, wear this, yeah? I don't need you shiverin' the whole way."

I wear the jacket without a word.

We step back out into the Quinpool waterway, only to discover that sidewalks had revealed themselves during our visit. Greer stretches her arms out, latte in one hand, and a splash of foamy water welcomes her back to the city. We walk.

"So, I also wanted to say sorry about the fifth degree," she starts, eyes up on the walkway ahead, one arm in a pocket, the other arm holding her coffee way too casually. "I was worried folks would show up, make this whole stink about 'Greer Lott', that whole mess." She gestures her coffee at the city.

"Yeah," I respond, eloquently.

"Yup. You ever see one of my games?" she asks, head gently turning to me, shoulder-length hair waving in the breeze.

"Yeah," I respond, again. "Wait. No. I'm not sure," I say, working through the memories again. "I don't think I've seen you, like, you you." I gesture my coffee at her self.

"What about the cutout?"

"What?"

"The cardboard cutout. I put it up every game."

My mind shrieks with a found vision. A cardboard cutout on the pitcher's mound. Balls thrown, batters walked, curveballs flunked. A nondescript, average woman in a crop-top that doesn't even wear the uniform, frozen in eternal place. "That's you?!" I shout, stopping in my tracks.

She laughs, that same loud, open-mouth laugh. "Yeah, that's me. I get a kick out of it every time, but the cutout does okay, all things considered." She swigs, stopping and turning backwards to face me. "I don't go to a lot of the games."

My brain is too used to shock, at this point. Put me in a tank with an electric eel, I'm ready. "You can do that?" I say, realizing I haven't done anything but ask questions for the past ten minutes.

"Yeah, I can. Well, I didn't know I could, until I decided not to go and told Garbage to put up the cutout," she continues, turning around to keep walking. "We called the thing Greer Lott and the umps were good with it."

I start catching up to her. "Wait, but why would you become an ILB Blaseball player if you don't go to the games--" I am interrupted by my crashing into her rigid back. I catch myself on the ground, sudden whiplash, coffee spilled, cup gone to the waters, my face suddenly flushed.

"You don't choose."

The waterway on our right washes by as I pick myself up, off the ground, hands stained with moisture. A light beam crosses overhead, bridging the gap from a perfectly placed window to a candy stand. She looks over her shoulder, eyes suddenly vanishing into the darkness underneath her cap. My blood runs cold.

"...I'm takin' you somewhere. You know about Spittle Park?" She turns around, facing me now. She takes the cap off.

"Is that the stadium in the city?"

"Yeah. There isn't a game on, right now," she says, taking a minute to breathe, breaking eye contact with me. "Don't know if you get to see this with the Beams." She walks off, stepping into the water and finding a ferry-boat.

We both get in without ceremony. I look at her for a minute. It's terrifying, how much of a presence she has; she stretches her legs out over the side of the boat, puts her cap on her stomach, looks at the coral reef on her arm, all with ease. She takes up so much space in my horizon as we ferry forward into the dark corners of the Sink. She makes eye contact with me, even without irises I can tell.

"You lookin' at somethin'? I don't think the view comes for free." That grin returns.

"You aren't charging me rent." Let's see how you like that one.

The grin widens. She liked it too much, pivot, pivot.

"What's the place like?" I ask. Non-threatening, non-Blaseball. I had seen one or two blurry pictures and it would be nice to know.

She looks back towards the water in front of her and crosses one leg over the other. "It's good. I've lived there for a while, in that neighborhood. I know a lot of folks there." She laces her hands under her hair, and leans back, letting it trail through the water. "The place itself, it's one of the better ones around here. I'm not gonna go live in a mansion up in Dartmouth, where the sun is. That's just not Halifax."

"I think I passed through Dartmouth on my way in here. It was nice," I reply. I remember big houses with big fences and big lawns. Nobody seemed to be walking around up there.

She spits into the water, the water froths up and spits back at her offense. "They're a bunch of hyper-corporate, super-capitalists who don't even hang out in their own neighborhood." She turns back towards me, half-grinning. "I bet they don't even know each other's names."

I laugh a little at that. "Where I'm from, it was a small town, so we all knew each other. Kind of, too well, honestly," I say, looking over her to some memories I see in the distance. "The families were nice, and it could feel kind of cramped. There weren't too many options to move out, since nobody was building houses."

She hums in agreement.

I smile. "I wanted to be there for a long time, not for any person, but just because it felt like home, you know?"

She nods, picking up and spinning the hat on her finger.

I look back out at the sunbeams shining in. They're fading slightly. "But, now I'm here." I hold the sleeves of Greer's jacket closer around me. "I'm so damp."

She laughs, dropping the hat in the water. Full-bodied, open mouth, clutching her stomach. She rolls over on her side.

I grab her hat out before it floats away, and put the wet thing back on her chest.

"Thanks, thanks. That was good." She exhales, out through the mouth, relaxing again. "Sorry for your dampness. It's just the vibe here."

I snort. "Damp vibes?"

She nods. "Damp vibes."


	4. Spittle Park, or A Thousand Lighters That Won't Go Out

I snort. "Damp vibes?"

She nods. "Damp vibes."

Our ride through the waterways towards the nearby Blaseball stadium is cut short, our paddleboat running aground. We step off, and Greer kicks the boat back into the water.

"You don't want to tie it up?" I ask.

"Nah. It'll find its way to someone else. Gods know there's a billion of 'em," she says, putting her calloused hands in her pockets. She stepped forward towards a light, beaming from in front of us, white, blue, and bright.

I follow her shortly and look over the railing. "Wow," I gasp.

Streaming spotlights of Talker colors beam beautiful neon across criss-cross streets of water and stone. Towering above, a gigantic stadium arises, with a huge domed top, far higher than everything around it. Sets of ridged spires rise up from the grounds nearby, stopping crashing waves from reaching the ceiling of the arena, creating rippling tidal waves all around its surroundings as the rejected water wreaked frustrated havoc, flooding and unflooding broken and battered buildings. No sun was here; if it was, it would have been outshone.

Greer points at the arena. "That's Spittle Park," she says. Her hand goes to a railing in front of her, that I hadn't realized was there--my hands come to rest on it as I lean forward in excitement. "Glamorous, right?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say. "That place looks wonderful."

She nods. "It's been here since I was younger. There's lots of legends about it." She looks over to me, cap on her head. "Want to hear one?"

I peel my eyes away from the glitzy monstrosity for a moment to meet her gaze. "Yes, please!"

She smiles, but doesn't grin. The excitement in my stomach feels less like glee and more like apprehension. Did her mood change when we walked over here?

"There are historical records 'n' all that, of the place bein' built." She pulls something out of her pocket, popping it into her mouth. Chew, chew, chew. "Not so sure, though. Someone long ago said they were there when Halifax sunk in. The whole thing collapses into a cave, he says." She waves her open arm around the buildings nearby. "Cave was already there, apparently. Folks just didn't dig deep enough. And in the cave, that thing stood there in the dark."

My breath hitches.

She takes another bite. Chew, chew, chew. "Apparently, when it all came crashing down, nobody sees anything but the smoke. But everyone gets blinded all of a sudden. Flashing lights." Bite, chew. "Guy goes and stands on top of his remaining house. Sees that thing lit up in all the dark. 'Welcome, fans', it beams on the neon signs. Everyone can see it with the smoke in their eyes."

I look back at it. One of the spotlights gently passes over us; for a second, my eyes are blinded. I take a breath; I taste Blaseball gently tugging on my tongue. Greer tilts her head down, the brim of her cap covers her eyes.

"Or, if you believe the companies," she says, "Gleek Arena was originally funded by the Spittle Candy Company back in the day. They got naming rights for 35 years, it got passed over. Moist Talkers been playing there since the start. So have all the localities."

I blink. "Do you really think they lied about building it?"

She doesn't. "Nah. They have proof, like the construction documents they drafted, and all that. 'Sides, it's just legends, right? Not like anybody is still around from when Halifax sunk." Bite, chew. Nothing left.

I see an orange light, faint, emerge and flicker, below Greer. Her face is suddenly illuminated, and I realize that I never got a good look at her. She has smile lines and a sharp jawline; a bigger nose and solid eyebrows. Those teeth aren't as jagged as I thought, but they stick out a little bit when her mouth is closed. Her hair, loose out the sides of her cap, is crusted with sparkling salt.

She holds a lighter up before her face. Below us, in the waterways and the criss-cross roads, I suddenly see small orange lights all do the same. Pinpricks of flame decorate the city streets like fairy lights suddenly plugged in. Small bits of fire on top of all the waters.

My eyes dart all around, but I don't feel nervous.

"It's a vigil," she says, eyes focused on the arena ahead. "But it's not for the splort."

I look at her, and my apprehension makes itself known. My heartrate bumps into my attention. "What's it for?"

"They're protesting," she says, lowering the lighter. "One of ours got incinerated the other day."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Her name was Tyler."

I lean over on the railings and clasp my hands together. The shining blue light of the stadium doesn't look so bright anymore.

"Folks in the streets aren't just doing this for her," she says. I hear her bend down, and look, seeing her set the lighter down on the ground. "They're tired of Blaseball taking people. Folks don't know much about what it's like in there, but our lifespan is getting shorter on average every day." She puts her hands back in her pockets, looking down at the little flame she left behind. "You get groomed for this."

I take my arms off the railing, and step towards Greer. "What do you mean?" I ask. 

"Like, I got picked out as a kid." She doesn't tilt her head up. M.T. looks at me. "You get the talent from the gods, right? So you get good enough to play the game. But it's a blessing, so it's what you get to do for your life." She looks back up at me. She's not smiling anymore. "But I wasn't spending my life pitching. I was giving it all away to some place where a rogue umpire could take me out on a dime. I didn't choose."

My brain goes numb as the realization of what she's saying washes over me. Goosebumps crawl their way up my shoulders.

She walks back over to the railing and puts both hands on it, clasping it. I see her knuckles tighten. "Blaseball, the democratic sport. Vote to make your teams better, bet to make your votes bigger.." She waves her arms, frantically, at the lights in front of her. "Where do these people get to vote? To stop the game? To stop people from dying?" She looks at me, and her eyes gleam with wetness.

I walk up, reaching out. My hands stop short, and they fall to my side. How am I supposed to cope with this one? How am I supposed to support her, here?

She spits in the direction of the arena. "Blaseball doesn't care about these folks. It doesn't care about me, either, and that was long before the umps went rogue. Blaseball won't ever give them an option to vote for." She turns away from the thing, taking a few steps off, pulling her hat down over her head. "I just needed you to see that before you came and lived with me. I needed you to know what I'm about." She turns her head slightly.

There's a lump in my throat, and I don't know how to get it out. The Beams. Were they loving what they did? Did I ever have the ability to see if they were in pain? My hands go into my hair, for a second, and I grip the roots. Everything was Blaseball back home. Everything is Blaseball everywhere. How do I get rid of it? How do I get over it?

I feel a hand on my shoulder, and I look up. Greer gives me a Look. I try and relax.

"It's okay," she says. "I just can't have someone living with me who doesn't see this side of my life. I needed to make sure you were cool."

I nod. "Yeah."

"Okay."

"Yeah, it's. It's like, a lot."

"I'm sorry."

"No, that's not you," I say. "I should've been thinking about this my whole life."

"Look, it's not like they taught it in school."

"No, no, I mean," I sputter. I put my hand on my forehead. I laugh, but not really. "Okay. I'm good. Let me see the place."

Greer smiles. "Alright."

We turn and walk together, away from Spittle Park, away from those burning blue and white lights, away from those little fires in all the water of Sunken Halifax, away from the folks forgotten by Blaseball. In that minute, I turn up, I look at Greer. She looks back.

"Would you have kicked me out if I wasn't cool?" I say, a sharp jab of fear suddenly hitting my chest.

She blinks. "Oh, nah. No way. Everyone gets a home," she says, giving me another grin. "I wasn't gonna turn you away like that."

"Oh, okay." I exhale. Thank the gods.


	5. Is This Where I'm Supposed to Be?

Greer lived in a unit in the "West End" of Halifax. She kept calling it a "flat", which, if I'm honest, I have no idea what the difference is between that and a house, or even an apartment. Moab just had big family homes that kept getting passed down to the children since new people only ever passed through--I guess folks aren't really doing that anymore.

She presents it with a grin and an exaggerated flourish. "Home sweet home!" she says, her eyes searching my expression.

It isn't really that big from the outside, which is surprising. I was expecting some kind of mansion, or at least something with two floors. It kind of looks like someone took a bunch of pieces of other houses and mashed them together: none of the windows are exactly the same size, there's a big windmill posturing out of the back with slow, lazy spins, the yard is covered with flowering moss, and the waterway gently laps up to the side of the house and splashes against the wall. How is this thing standing?

Greer steps in front of me and grabs both my shoulders--my brain comes into focus. "Quit spacing out," she says. "You've gotta come inside to really judge the place."

I shake my head, getting the fuzz out. "Yeah, sure," I respond, hefting my bag over my shoulder. "Let's get inside."

She leads me by the arm across the yard and to the front door, which she promptly opens without turning a key.

"No lock?" I ask, slightly worried.

"Nah, no need," she says, reassuringly. "The folks around here take care of each other, and it's not like it looks like much from outside. 'Sides, they know who lives here."

"I guess that's a deterrent..." My voice trails off as I step into the most chaotic mess I've ever seen in my life.

It's bigger on the inside, with walls painted haphazard colors, dark greens, orange reds. My eyes dart all over, seeing picture after painting after clock after shelf covered with books, toys, and ornaments. Two couches crowd around a coffee table, hunching over to see the television in front. The kitchen is visible over a divider, crammed into a corner with all sorts of knives, tools, and ingredients scattered across the countertops. Every surface seems cluttered by some kind of paper, object, or tool.

"I cleaned it up for you!" she says, walking past the couch, hands in pockets. "I like to work on things all over the place in here, and you can feel free to do the same."

I look desperately for a coat rack to put up Greer's jacket, finding nothing to avail me of my burden. How do you live like this, Lott?

She steps into the kitchen, opening up an overhead cabinet, stacked with glass bottles of colored liquid. "You want a drink? I was thinking about making us dinner to celebrate, but I'm not that great of a cook, and there's a pizza place just down the road where we can get some donairs."

I hang Greer's jacket over the doorknob, precariously balancing it to not drip too much water on the heavily carpeted floor. I notice pillows scattered across the floor, each nearby another thing, another paper, another electronic device. "What's a donair?" I ask.

I feel the silence stunned by my words in the air. Greer gently puts the bottle down in front of her. She turns around and slowly walks over to the divider between kitchen and living room, eyes boring holes into my head under her cap. "You will know the beauty of a donair tonight," she says, barely audible, her intensity masking her voice. "I will take you there."

Frozen, wordless, I stand with my mouth slightly open, whiplash keeping me in shock.

She turns around, and I exhale again. I really should've Googled the local customs before I came here.

I hear liquid pouring as I step through the living room into the kitchen behind. Greer turns around and holds out a small shot glass filled with clear liquid.

"Oh, wait, you meant a drink? Like alcohol?" I said, taking the glass and swallowing nervously. It had been a while.

"Yeah, totally. I have a whole cabinet full of spirits I don't get into because nobody's around." She gestures to the empty bottles on the kitchen counter. "Or, that's what I tell people." She grins, winking at me once before leaning back against the wall and taking off her cap.

"Okay then. Yeah," I say. I desperately hope she can't hear the apprehension in my voice.

"You good?" She heard it.

I look up and smile an apology. "I can't really drink. Especially on my first night here. Maybe later?"

She nods and smiles, her shoulder-length hair waving back and forth. "I'll knock these out then."

I watch her take both shots at the same time in absolute awe. People don't drink like that back home.

She smiles, puts the glasses down. "You want to see your room, or are you really hungry?" 

"Room, please."

"Okay. Over here." She steps past me towards a door on the other side of the living room, passing by the couches. She opens a door, which widens out into a pretty spacious bedroom. The walls were painted a much less harsh orange than the living room outside. It's got furniture too--thank the gods. A wide bed, stuffed into the corner, with deep blue sheets and a seriously fuzzy blanket. A desk on the other side of the room, with a mirror on top. A wardrobe at the foot of the bed, and next to that, a bare bookshelf, aside from a cap that looked a lot like Greer's.

I put my bag on the bed, motioning towards the cap. "They give you more than one of those?" I ask, turning to pull some things out the bag.

Greer doesn't respond to me, immediately. I hear her walk over to the bookshelf and pick up the hat. "Uh, yeah. Lots of merch," she says, but I hear a warble in her voice that seems like she isn't so sure.

I look back up at her, turning my head, trying to scan her face. She isn't looking in my direction, and just has the cap in her hands, turned to the back. Six letters that I can't make out from here. I step closer, and read out the name. "Violet," I say.

She doesn't say anything back.

"Is that someone on your team?" I ask, stepping around to get in front of her. She looks up at me and I see a slight shine in her eyes. "Oh, that's..."

"Yeah, that's Tyler. They used to live here."

Realization claws at the back of my neck, and I feel my breath catch. This night has been getting way too emotional.

"Sorry," she says, stepping away from me. "I just need a minute." She shuts the door behind her before I can say anything else.

I stand for a second, taking in my new home. The weight of old ghosts is all over Sunken Halifax, but it feels even heavier right here, in this spot. Was Greer really okay letting a stranger like me live here, taking up this space? Am I meant to be here?

I sit down on the bed, feeling the softness of the blanket between my fingers. Was this theirs? Are the sheets new? Did I walk in on someone's old space?

I look up, making eye contact with my mirrored form. I walk towards me, looking at my hand-cut hair, my tired eyes, my dirty face. My reflection makes a promise to me. "We're gonna get through this," we say. "We're gonna be cool."

I smile at myself for the first time in a month.


	6. Donair Sauce and Good Company

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been a while, huh?

I step back out into the living room; my face washed, my hair pulled back, my clothes changed. Greer is packing a bag in the kitchen, disorganized, like everything else in the house. I step past bag after bag; I catch a flash of red and blue in the bag. She slings it over her shoulder, her trademark grin coming back up. I flash a small smile back at her.

"Alright," she says. "Donairs. We're gonna have some."

"Okay, let's do it," I say, turning towards the door, before stopping. "Uh, Greer?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I keep using your jacket?"

She barks out a short laugh. "Yeah, dude. Go for it."

I pull it back over my shoulders, stopping at the door to slip my shoes back on. Then she's there, putting a hand on my shoulder, reaching past me to crack the door open.

I look over my shoulder. "Don't you need a jacket yourself?"

"No, it's alright. Folks like me tend to get along better with the cold and all than folks from Utah." She winks at me before stepping through.

I stand there for a second. "What?" I say just under my breath. I start walking after her. "Do you mean fish people?"

* * *

I take a bite. Pillowy bread leads into that meat, finely shredded or sliced or something; either way, it's good. My teeth hit onion and I chew, and that tang plays right into the sweet, garlicky sauce that runs through the thing. It's like a gyro, but not; and I had to go to a pizza place to get it.

Greer stares at me from across the table. I know their eyes are fixated on me, my expression, my emotions. The gaze of a friend showing you their favorite movie.

A slop of donair sauce slips onto the tray.

She sighs, exasperated. "Okay, it's been like five minutes. What do you think?"

I swallow my first bite. "I literally just sat down."

"Come on, come on!"

"Okay, okay..." I let the silence play out for a second. I tap a napkin on the sides of my mouth. I break eye contact. I look at the table; I fold my hands. I know it's good, but the absolute pleasure I get from watching Greer Lott squirm in her seat like a child is even better.

My eyes flicker back up. "It's okay."

Greer is standing up and shouting before I even take a second bite.

I just laugh. A real one, for the first time in a month.

We take a pizza with us on the walk back. Greer likes pineapples, sardines, black olives, and bell peppers. I like pepperoni sometimes. She's talking to me about how all the salty plays into the sweet, and I'm just nodding my head and trying not to step in too many puddles—not that it helps when the whole city is one big puddle in a big, wet cave.

Greer doesn't let a second go by without filling the silence, and it's pretty much any thought that comes to her head. Blaseball, the stuff she's writing, the stuff she's drawing, what she ate for lunch last week. Sometimes she name drops someone big, like Jessica Telephone, and my brain decides to tune in:

"So the game was over, right? And Telephone gets all mad about how she had to bat up against some cardboard from J.C. Penney, so I tell her to come and talk to me when the fans are gone. So all the lights go out, right, and rain starts comin' down in Philly, 'cause it's a wet place down there, you know, and I take the pitcher's mound and she sets up the Dial Tone and I'm like 'Come on, girl, if you're battin' with a big phone you're just gonna get collect called'. Then I strike her out, easy."

"You pitched out Jessica Telephone on the mound, without anyone watching, in the middle of a storm?"

"Yup. One, two, three, she's out. She isn't a sore loser either; she took her licks and walked up to me after, grabbing my arm in that warrior handshake, just noddin' her head, and she winks at me and says: 'Call me when you want to do that again. I'll be waiting.'"

"So you have her number now?"

"I do, and the way she looks at you, man, it's something. Like she's looking at all of you all at once. Makes you feel something."

"Huh."

And then I tune back out again. I'm not sure if I believe her or not. Why would she come to games and hang in the dugout if her cutout was pitching? Does she just do it for the clout?

My ears twitch. Her voice changed. I look back over at her.

"You know..." she exhales, slowly. "You could come for a game, if you want."

I smile. "That sounds fun. Will you be pitching?"

Greer takes off her hat, runs one hand through her hair. Some bright salt crystals shake themselves out. Her black eyes flicker back and forth. I'm getting better at telling where they're looking. "Yeah, I'll pitch. I gotta drop some stuff off with the team, anyways."

"Are you going take me backstage?"

She grins, teeth shining. "Sure, yeah. Sounds fun. 'Sides, sounds like you need a job, and they always got openings at the stadium."

Images of that neon cathedral scatter through my head like lightning. Those violent waves cutting up the side. "Uh, yeah. I dunno. Maybe not there."

She shrugs. "Suit yourself." Her smile fades, she looks away. "There is one problem, though."

I cock my head and stop walking, looking at her. "What's up?"

She looks back at me, sheepish smile on her face, one hand running through the back of her head. "I haven't talked to 'em in a week."


	7. Was It Ever a Good Idea?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for this chapter: injury, blood, descriptions of pain, eldritch creatures.

I stare up at the flashing, digital display. Flashing messages breeze by in sudden, jerky movements, holographic communication careening through the motions. "STADIUM CLOSED FOR HIATUS," it screams. The third season had just ended. Blaseball was scratching at the seams, desperate to escape—umpires were running rampant trying to stitch the pieces back together. Some players died. More players grieved. All the while, we cheer constantly for their efforts to scramble together entertainment value in the wake of annihilation. 

I look back at my roommate.

* * *

"What do you mean? Like, you haven't seen them at all?" I ask, sitting down on her—on our—front porch, setting the pizza next to me.

Greer sits on the other side of the box. "Yeah, no, not since Ty. I—I just. I couldn't sit there and watch it happen."

I pull my knees up under my chin; I wrap my arms around my shins. I keep my eyes on her.

Her cap stares back at me. TALKERS. "I ran out of the stadium when it happened. I didn't keep playing, or anything."

"You were there? You were playing?"

"Yeah," she says, opening the box again for her third slice. "It was a good game, too. Ty tied up the score." She snorts. "Ty tied."

I shake my head. "Why that game?"

Greer chews. That doesn't respond. I've gotten kind of used to it, at this point; we're talking like we're good friends. We don't know anything about each other.

"Alright, so, how are we gonna get that hat back to the stadium?"

"Hm." Greer chews on a piece of the pizza crust—she eats that? Who eats the crust? "We could sneak in."

"Why would we sneak in? You're a player."

"Yeah, and most folks don't know me, but I gotta be honest, if the team spots me before I'm ready to talk to 'em, I don't think I could handle it."

I reach in for my first slice. Pepperoni and banana peppers. I take a bite; I'm not that hungry after the donair, but if there's any way I'm going to get through this conversation, I'm going to need an excuse to let Greer talk thatself out.

"We could... hm."

I swallow. "What?"

"So like," she gestures, a drop of grease flying off the end of the slice. "There's this whole part of the arena that most folks don't go into."

"The concession stand?"

Greer laughs. "No, stupid. The team calls it the 'Under-Arena'." Another snort. "I call it the basement." Another bite, another chew, another swallow. Did she just eat the thing whole?

* * *

She stands with her hat gone, hair obscured by a dark blue hoodie. It still has the Moist Talker branding on it, but it's subtler, looks more like a fan. Her eyes are still dark, her jawline still sharp. Her tattoos are covered by her sleeves.

"You really thought the whole thing through?" I ask. It's a common question, these days. I kind of love to ask her the question. I usually know the answer.

It's weird, though. This time, I don't. And this time, she doesn't smile at me with the reassuring grin of someone who also doesn't know what they're doing.

We start walking around the side of the behemoth in front of us.

* * *

"So it's like... a dungeon?" I ask, second slice down to the bone. I toss the crust to her.

This one is crispy. It crunches under her teeth. "Yeah," she says. "It's got all sorts of weird stuff in it. Retro hats, old books. One of the other pitchers, Doc, was trying to dig through and understand what was going on back there." She swallows. "By the way, nerd. Who calls basements dungeons?"

I roll my eyes. "If it has weird grates and stone bricks, it's a dungeon."

Toothy grin. "You ever seen a real dungeon before?"

"I mean, no, but like—" I look back at her. She's being tricky. Her eyebrows jump on her head with playful enthusiasm. "Seriously?"

An absolute uproar of laughter from Greer Lott. 

Is this seriously the only friend I have in this city?

* * *

We got in through an outflow vent the water flows into. We were big enough to fit through the grate—like it isn't designed to keep us out.

Greer holds my hand as we drift quickly through tunnels that wound around itself in sharp corners and curves. She crashed into the wall more than once, grabbing me quickly to make sure I didn't hit my head. No matter how many times her own skull cracks against that slick concrete, she keeps smiling at me. We're on an adventure.

We keep sliding forward until the water launches us out of a pipe and into a giant, dark, deep pool, whose waters welcome us with a stillness that chills me more than the cold did. I surface, and start scrabbling at the wall.

She surfaces, and finds the ladder instantly. "Over here," she whispers, motioning quickly towards me. Reassurance is gone from her voice as paddle over to her.

We take our time moving across the smooth surface of this strange reflecting pool, the ripples of water moving as if we were the only things that disturbs its stillness—until the water starts rippling back in from the opposite direction.

Greer dunks her head under the water. What the hell is going on? I start swimming more frantically in the direction she pointed toward. Am I about to get eaten? Is there something down there?

I feel the water begin to push against me as I move.

Greer cracks through the now-violent surface and screams at me to get moving. My eyes concentrate in the dark and find the ladder on the wall. 

I feel something move underneath me, and for a minute, the water goes concave—I begin to fall into a trench, and the walls close in after me. I am submerged.

My eyes panic open, stinging from the salt, and I spot alabaster flesh twisting over itself, thousands of times again and again, gigantic, black beady eyes staring into my own, a vacuous expression, a flat smile, and my muscles lock in absolute terror, and I stop swimming, and it moves towards me, and it stares at me—

I am pulled from the water by the clawed hands of Lott, and thrown up to the top of the ladder. My arm cracks under me against the stone floor.

Pain. I've broken my arm before, it's not something I'm not used to, I hate having it in a cast, this is going to suck so hard. 

I can't blame Greer Lott. She saved my life.

She pulls herself up from the ladder and looks back down at the water, waiting. After a minute, she comes to check on me. I am crying.

"Hey, hey. You okay? Talk to me."

I spit out saltwater and rub my eyes with my good hand. "My arm. Please. It hurts."

"████, okay, we can deal. Are you good to walk? I know someone here who can patch you up."

I blink, my eyes still burning, my eyes still weeping. "No, you can't talk to the team right now." I have to be cool. I have to be cool.

Greer stammers, her expression twisting into discomfort. "No, dude, this is like, I screwed that up bad. We gotta go. Let's find Doc."

My arm throbs. The pain washes over my entire body. I can't even feel my other arm, my leg. I look back at my steps. Why was the water dripping from my jacket—Greer's jacket, so dark?

I look at my arm and see blood. I stop breathing. My arm is covered in blood. Good gods. "I need help." My vision goes black. My vision comes back.

"Yeah, I've got you." She picks me up. Like it was nothing. Her hood is down. 

I fold my bad arm up on my stomach. I take my good arm and pull her hood back up. She told me she's nervous. "Gotta make sure. The disguise."

She looks at my eyes, she grins, she holds me tight. "Shut up."

That smile.


	8. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for gore.

Drifting in.

Echoing voices cascade, rapid saccade, reverb audibles, bouncing feedback.   
Broken sounds screech on imaginary record players,   
eardrum bass boosted,   
quantifiable by amount of discomfort, qualitative by measure of regret.   
Easy streets blend fiery hell with   
old-known desert, brambles of cacti and tumbleweed   
rip  
concrete and asphalt til urban America particulates the air.   
  
"Gravity don't work no more,"   
that little girl says   
when she stands   
in front of   
the me behind   
me in front of me.   
The street sign demarcating   
the beginning of city sprawl cuts jagged edge   
between where the Moab lays claim and crawls   
through   
with no respect for domestic border, but   
"What is the border in the face of the devil's own imperialism,"   
she asks me when   
she puts her shoulder  
on my hand   
on her hand   
on my shoulder.

Domicile familiar collapsing in on itself.   
Family domestic collapsing in on themselves.   
Bones split like rebar. Rebar split like bones.   
Palindrome world looks the same   
in a circle,   
upside down, backwards. Looking away,   
looking again,   
looking away,   
looking again.   
Roaring thunderous earthquakes hairsplit tectonic plates shift and zig-zag ungodly formations craft into profane mountains and glass yet unmelted.   
Limelight spotlight crisscrosses and intersects   
air scripture,   
one sentence,   
one phrase,   
one word without form.

"Come back to the Hellmouth."

Drifting out.


	9. Aftercare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings: medication, injury mention, descriptions of pain.

Did my room always have these awful lights? I definitely remember it being, I, like, amber. Or like.

Wow. I cannot get myself in order. Hello. It's me, yes. I am here. I am not in my room.

My eyes flit open to look at a figure sitting across my bed. My cot? It's not comfortable. There's like, one pillow. This is not my bed.

I open my words to get my mouth out. What? I breathe.

Oh my gods. My arm hurts so much.

I groan as loud as I can. The figure, turns around, and her massive, circular glasses shine white in the light before revealing shattering, beautiful green eyes. Her curly, frizzy, almost-solid hair bounces as she walks over to me and presses a cold hand to my forehead. Lips pursed, jaw tight. Is she disappointed in me? God, she looks like my mom.

"Okay. No fever." She picks up a clipboard and scribbles. "Pain?"

"Yes."

"Out of 10?"

I move my arm. My brain goes numb from the lightning strikes deep in my skin. The cry starts to come out of my eyes. The tears.

She nods, making a note. "Seven or eight."

That's a seven or eight? Good god.

She sets down the clipboard. "Look, you got pretty lucky. It's a closed fracture, you'll just have a cast for a little while. About 4 weeks."

Jesus. "Gods. How. Who are you?"

"Doctor."

Well. I mean. "Yeah, but like. Who?"

I hear a cough from across the room. I turn my head, slowly, coming to rest on the other side of a pillow.

Greer flashes teeth as she walks forward, giving me a thumbs up. "Heeeeeeeeeeey, dude. How are you doin'?" Her words come out as shakily as her step. She eventually sits on the other side of me, keeping her hands on top of the bed.

I don't know how to feel.

The doctor looks over at Greer. "Been a while."

Greer looks back up, grin growing a little more lopsided, a little more sheepish, a little more anxious. Ugh. I didn't want this to happen. "Yeah, doc, sorry. Been busy."

"Mm. Bad excuse."

"It's not an excuse, really, I'm busy!" Greer shoots their hands out to their sides, gesturing wildly all around them. "Games take up way too much time. How am I supposed to get around to all the other stuff?"

I see the doctor's stare reflected in Greer's black pupils. Cold. Chilly. Vacuous. "There shouldn't be anything else, Lott."

"Look, I don't—," Greer stammers. "This is a mess, okay? I shouldn't have to come. None of us should have to come."

"Hm." I feel her turn around, her long white coat swishing in the wind. I hear the rattling of a pill bottle set next to me. Where did she get the prescription? I look up.

She is looking down at me, two circular orbs staring down, opaque, glossy. "Painkillers. I'll be back." She turns with a flourish, her hair settling behind her. She walks out.

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I exhale.

How am I supposed to feel? Am I meant to be mad? Is Greer the reason that I broke my arm? I could have just not gone—but they were so determined. Desperate? I can't just look at someone like that and not want to help them.

"Hey."

I turn my head, slowly again. 

"You mad at me?" She's not grinning anymore. Did she just put that on front of the doctor?

My eyes blur, and I blink. I focus again on Greer. "No, not mad. It's okay." I forget that I shouldn't shrug, and I start groaning again.

Greer reaches across me and grabs the pill bottle, releasing the top with a smooth motion. They dole out a pill. "Open your mouth."

This really where I have to be? I bet I could move my arm if I tried hard enough.

She waits, dangling the pill in front of my face. "Come on. I'm your caretaker now, I'm your nurse."

I snort. That laughs. I start, they shush me. I open my mouth, they toss the pill onto my tongue. "Water?" I ask.

"Yeah." She reaches next to the bed and pulls out a bottle. One hand gently comes underneath my pillow, around to the back of my head; I can feel the scales gently rub my scalp through my hair. She lifts my head up, and tilts the bottle to my mouth. My lips are way too dry.

I swallow as much as I can, getting the medicine down, and Greer, putting the bottle down, reaches up and tucks my hair behind my ears. Her hands. Warm and cold at the same time. Those nails... like talons. Claws. Does she manicure them?

I tilt my head. She's not wearing her hood, her hair gently waving in the air, messy and still a little wet. She makes eye contact with me and smiles, like a real smile. "Wow, don't see that one that often."

Her eyes widen. I see her blush. Got you, Lott.

She shakes her head, breaks eye contact with me, laughing gently to thatself.

I smile. The fuzzy feeling of narcotics comes and washes over me. My vision starts the blur, and refocus. "I'm sorry," I blurt. "I didn't. You shouldn't have to talk to them if you don't want to."

I can't read her expression. The smile is gone, the laugh is gone, but it's not... the same kind of stoic that it was before. "No, I did something pretty stupid bringing you here. Probably coulda done the whole thing myself." She manages a small smile, but it slips away from her quickly.

"Yeah. I'm glad. I came." I am? I guess I am, but. I'm not happy I got hurt.

A gentle ringing sound clouds my ears. My head drifts back up to the ceiling. Come on, come back. This is a vulnerable moment, I need to talk to her.

Her muffled voice does not make it into my mind. They put a hand on my forehead, that's fuzzy too. The forehead. The hand is scaly, but only a bit, not noticeable from far away. They have a tattoo on their palm. I can't see it. My eyes come back into focus.

"Go to sleep, dude. I'll be here."

I don't feel the tears on my face, but Greer's thumb slides underneath my eyes. "Okay." I really mean it, too. I want to sleep for a while. It's been so long since I've had a good night's sleep.

Greer is smiling at me, but their expression freezes. Their eyes, that glint, it shifts above me, over me, past me out the door. Who is there? The doctor?

A voice cracks out across the room. "You seriously showed back up? After what you did?" It's a strong voice. Confident voice. But it breaks at the end of its sentence. My head slides over to the other side.

I don't understand what I see. I hear Greer's chair slide back. I hear her take steps forward. 

"Ziwa," she says. "I didn't think you were here."


	10. Am I Good Enough?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> content warning: implied violence, description of injury, description of pain.

"Why the hell are you here, right now?" Ziwa Mueller spits out, words falling at the feet of Greer, disgust and disdain dripping from their tongue.

"What do you mean? It's my team," Greer responds. Her tone is defensive, but the way she stands is uneasy.

"I don't think so. You don't get to act like you belong here."

"What the hell, Ziwa?"

"It's your fault."

Greer doesn't respond. I look at her face, my eyes drifting in and out of focus. I see her jaw clench. I see her hands tighten.

"It's your fault—your fault that I have to be here right now," Ziwa continues, spit flying out, voice breaking. "How dare you? After what you did."

Greer lunges off the side of my bed. My vision blurs. I start to go under. I hear the crashing sounds of bodies hitting lockers and screaming. God. This is a mess.

* * *

Drifting in.

Mirror-like porcupine reflection 

looks deep into my eyes. 

Vestibules of guilt float up all around us. 

Bubbles in a glass ocean.

They don't look like me on the other side.

They aren't me. They're violet.

"Violet?"

"Yep. Short straw, huh?"

"What?"

"Greer can be a lot."

"She's sad."

"She's mad."

"Why?"

"Probably somethin' about me."

"Is that your room, at home?"

"You don't know yet."

"Oh."

"Not a ghost. I'm a memory."

"I don't remember you."

"Tch. I'm not yours to remember."

Shapes move in the clear water.

We are in so deep.

"My new room."

"My old room."

"Your bed?"

"Yours now."

"I don't think I can handle all this."

"Blaseball's complicated."

"I'm not a player."

"No, but she is."

Greer swims up to us. She doesn't say anything, just stares at the empty space between me and them.

I start to cry. "I just want to be cool."

"Hey, no. You are cool." They reach across the depths.

"But what if I stop?"

"Home?"

"I could never go back home."

Greer's expression darkens. The water feels warm.

"That's not your home anymore."

"What?"

"Stop calling it that."

"Why?"

"It's gone now."

"No it's not! It's a memory."

"I'm the memory here."

"It's my goddamn memory." I bite my lip.

Tyler shakes their head. "Can't live in a memory."

"But I can run from home."

"Why try?"

"I can find something new."

"Greer?"

"She might be my home now."

Greer looks at me and grins.

"You need to ask about me more."

"But I'm scared to."

"You saw what she did."

"Is she scared of you?"

Tyler smiles. A lopsided smile. They pull it off.

"I'm a little scared of her." 

The warmth leaves the water.

"That's okay. Keep tryin'."

"Do I really have it in me?"

"Yeah."

"How do you know?"

"'Cause you got a lil' bit a' me in you."

Drifting out.

* * *

I come to.

My eyes open to see Greer sitting on a bench with ice on her face. She's asleep, like me.

"Hey there."

I turn to Ziwa, their face gentle, their smile comforting and subtle. Comforting and smug. One black eye.

"Been a while since I had a fistfight."

"Did...you. Did you hit, her?" My voice is falling apart. My cheeks flush. My heart starts to strum.

"Yeah. She hit me too."

My arm, flashing out from the bed. I don't even feel the pain from my other side. My palm hits their cheek.

Ziwa stumbles backwards. "What the hell?"

I push myself up. I start to climb out of bed. My broken arm is in a sling.

They push towards me. "Hey, you need rest."

I shove them away. How dare they. How could they hurt her? "GetGet away from us." I collapse in front of the bench that Greer sleeps on. My arm is throbbing. I'm crying. I didn't even realize it happened.

"What? Look, you don't know. You don't get it—"

"Shut up." My eyes sting. My hair, violent and chaotic, swings through the air as I stare deep into Ziwa's huge, expressive eyes. I can read them so easily. Too responsible. Too 'giving'. Cares soooo much. "Get out of here."

"Dude, seriously—"

"No. We came here to do something good. And you hurt her."

"Please—"

"SHUT UP!" I shout. "SHUT UP AND GET OUT!" My arm screams. "TAKE THE HAT AND GET. OUT."

"Hat? What hat?"

Greer's hand on the back of my head. Groaning. "I already put it back." 

I look over to her, our eyes level. Our faces close. She gave me a home. I'm not letting this punk lionfish get near her.

Greer grins at me. "Got some fire in ya, huh?" She's missing a tooth. 

I ache. I grit my teeth. I can't get up anymore. My arm hurts too much.

I hear the door slam shut. "You. You have to tell me what happened."

Her smile goes away.

"Why are you fighting your team?"

"Hey."

"No, you can't. You can't, like—Stop the mystery thing."

"I like bein' a little mysterious!"

I shake my head. "I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to be scared to talk to me."

"What?"

I look into her eyes. Properly. "I'm not going to leave if you tell me what happened."

Greer's mouth parts. I feel the wind of her exhalation. I know I hit the nail on the head. I know she's been avoiding it.

"I'm sleeping in their bed, Greer."

"Yeah. I guess you are."

"You have to tell me about your roommate."

Greer guffaws. She starts to laugh.

"No, I'm serious. I know roommate is a word that you can't like—"

"No, no, dude," she says, barely breathing between laughter. "They weren't my roommate."

I blink.

She points at the door. "That was Ziwa. Ziwa was their roommate."

"What?" Wait. No, that's a whole bedroom. They didn't put it together for me.

"Yeah, no. Ty wasn't my roommate." She settles, coughing.

"Oh." I rest my head on Greer's shoulder. My broken arm sits between us, just out of sight. Why were they so important?

"No, uh," Greer exhales, shakily. "They were my girlfriend."


	11. Who could I even be without you?  Was it all my fault, Ty?  Sometimes I scream, and I think about what it would be like to hold you again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning: grief, violence, death, and implied sexual activity.

"Well, I. Girlfriend?"

"What?"

"I didn't think I'd be sleeping in your girlfriend's bed."

"Ex, girlfriend, sorry."

"What? Oh god, yeah, I'm sorry."

"No, no, it's just like. It's more complicated."

"Greer, you have got to break this down for me."

"I will. Okay? I will. I'm tryin' to, but the last memory I have of them were when they died and it's. It's so much to parse."

"Okay."

"So, Ty and I met back in the day before the Moist Talkers were a thing."

"I thought that the stadium had always been around?"

"Yeah, it has... I think. It's just like. Folks in the team, they change. There're other teams and all."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Ty and I knew each other in college. We had mutual friends. Kinda linked up, just chatted. We both played in college leagues, so we played against each other once in a while."

"Were you rivals?" 

"Ha ha. No. I just struck her out every now and again."

"Like Telephone?"

"Yeah, like Jess. 'Cept, I had no idea where Jess came from. That's a whole other story, though."

"Okay."

"Ty and I go the same after-party, after we win one. We're drinkin', Ty walks up to me, all of a sudden we're dancing. I'm trying hard not to—Uh, they had like, these quills? These spikes. I really wanted to touch them in the middle of all this music so I run my finger over one and Ty kinda just shivers and looks back at me with this real shine in their eyes."

"Oh boy."

"Yeah, heh, yeah. So things start moving a little faster, the music gets louder, we drink more. We drink a lot. So my eyes are swimming and I'm losing concentration and I sit down and I just grin at Ty. Ty walks over and sits in my lap and comes in real close."

"Yeah?"

"They pull in, close. Whisper in my ear. 'I've got you figured out, Lott.' Pull back. Lips so close I could've just leaned in, and I really wanted to, and I should've. But I didn't, and they just squeezed my shoulders and winked at me, got up, left."

"Sounds kind of..."

"Okay, well, you don't gotta press salt in the wound, okay? I get nervous around pretty people."

"Hm."

"Anyway. We come to the next time we play, Ty steps up to plate. Usual stance. They always dig their heels into the front plate when they really think they're gonna nail it, so I signal to the catcher and I get ready to swing 'em out. Then, Ty just smiles at me."

"Oh no."

"Yup. Something just changes in the air, and my arm feels like it's going weak, I feel like I'm losing it. They just swing their hips, swing their bat, and wham, it's off the field. I turned over the inning immediately after 'cause my pride just couldn't take it."

"Poor you."

"Shut up. I walk to the dugout and Ty's leaned back against the entrance. Compliments me on my makeup. I don't say anything back. I'm standing in front of them, I realize, like..."

  
"...What?"

"Like. They really did have me right in the palm of their hand. That was it. They beat me. And I just. I could not handle that revelation."

"What did you do?"

"Well I told them to get back on home and make me stop pitching. I handed them the first goddamn bat I saw, I said to myself, no way they weren't cheating. I threw them curveballs, junkers, forkballs, grounders, picked corners, I did everything. They hit every single one inside the strike zone."

"Wow."

"Yeah. And I just. I collapsed, right there, on my knees, in front of hundreds of people watching our dumb college feud. And they came up to me and said, 'I told you, Lott. I've got you figured out.' Then they bent down and put a hand under my chin and made me look 'em in the eyes, and said, 'I like you a lot. I hope we can keep playing like this.'"

"That's all it takes to get in a relationship with you?"

"Yeah, kinda... I mean, no, no. Like. They pick me up and they let me know a secret, that I always looked where I was throwing the ball, and I could've gotten away with it with anyone else 'cause—"

"Your eyes."

"My eyes. Yes! My eyes."

"So they figured out your tell?"

"It was so much more than that. Ty got to know me by playing these games, by dancing with me, feeling me out. They had that kind of empathy. They cared so much about knowin' me. I kind of just gave up in that moment, I didn't realize that, I had done the same thing."

"So when did you go on your first date?"

"Funny enough, it was after we graduated. Took me a while. I didn't really want to go."

"You like college? Learning?"

"Wow. Can we get through one conversation without you snipin' me?"

"No."

"...I mean, fair enough, but still. Look, college was the one place where I didn't have to worry about finances, didn't have to worry about—about splorts, about living up to a reputation. I kind of loved it 'cause I could just learn what I wanted to learn and care about whatever I wanted to care about."

"And after?"

"I told you before, you don't really get a choice. I was good enough, so I got into the ILB, and god bless Canada for starting a team just in time. Merritt and Alstott bought the rights to the stadium, cleaned the damn place up, brought the team together. Picked me, even though I didn't want to be there anymore."

"Ty?"

"Ty was there, too. Ty cared about Blaseball, so much more than I did, I gotta be honest. Ty loved it. It gave them purpose. So like, I come around, and we get into these real grudge matches, spitting at each other about how much I was there, contributing, when the lights were on and the fans were out."

"That must've been tough."

"Yeah, except for what happened after the lights were off. We were constantly in there, practicing, and when we weren't practicing, we were making out on the locker room bench, under stands, all over each other all the time."

"Wait. I slept on that bench!"

"Hah! You asked to hear the story. It was so good. Best kisser I've ever had in my life, and those spines—god, I could tell you stories. We had kinda done the yearning thing already, back in college, but we were older, and a couple of absolute disasters. So we kind of just went for it, those days. We knew we liked each other, outside of Blaseball and all this mess."

"Yeah, that makes sense, but I'm not seeing what happened yet."

"Okay, okay. Long story short, not much had changed. We really cared about each other, in a big way. We lived separate, I had this apartment closer to downtown, closer to the Arena. They lived with their old college roommate, Ziwa."

"Was that the asshole who knocked your tooth out?"

"Yeah, yeah. I dunno, they aren't, really. Whatever. Anyway, Ziwa's a 'good influence'. Always making sure Ty goes to games, showing up with cardboard signs, really loving Ty, really making sure they love the splort. They shared that. Close friends."

"I can see why you guys have your differences."

"Look, the differences don't matter when you have someone like Ty around. Ziwa's a kind person, and a really good friend, and really loved Ty in a big way. I just... I don't think they ever got around to carin' about me, or having me over in their room, or being in their space, spouting spit about how much I hated how the system and the splort dragged on me."

"What about Ty?"

"Ty was different. Open, honest. And they knew me, and I knew them, and they knew I wouldn't be sayin' the things I say without a good reason. Ziwa didn't have the same kind of empathy that Ty does...Ty feels you. Ziwa wants to make you feel better. And so, one day, Ty shows up with a cardboard cutout."

"No way."

"Yes, way, and don't tell anyone I told you this, because the other Talkers'll be pissed if they ever find out."

"Locked away forever."

"You're not so bad, huh? Yeah, okay, so, we make it happen. One day, Ty puts up the cutout when they call my name out, and the field goes real quiet, and everyone's confused. Then, the umps walk up, sniff it out, me and Ty are in the dugout, we're just cackling at each other figuring out how this is gonna work. And then they call my name."

"Whoa."

"Right? Whoa. The ball gets thrown, somewhere in-between us not looking, and it is god-awful at it. Two stars at best. Ty freed me."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah."

"Oh my god."

"Yeah. Then Ty starts figuring out how to do this for themselves, and I am on top of the world, and I am visiting all these restaurants with wait times too long, and going on road trips outside the city once in a while, and taking my time, and all of a sudden I am free. I get my own place, I start building on it, I stop showing up to games. I still show up for practice, 'cause it's my team, I care about them, but I don't have to be there anymore, I don't have to get burned, I don't have to—I just don't have to. So I don't."

"What about the rest of the Talkers?"

"What?"

"What about... actually, nevermind. What next?"

"Shoot, uh. So I build this spare bedroom. It's been, what, a couple months we've been dating, but now that I don't have to go to games, Ty and I have like. We're planning out our schedules and making sure I can drive them places and we're really living life. God. One Sunday we stayed up all night at the highest point in Halifax and we just kissed each other underneath all those beautiful stars, 'cause the light can't get out of the cave, and we could just be there, and warm up with each other. It's so nice."

"I saw them on my way here."

"It's really something else, right? You sit there for a minute with a warm body—with Ty, right next to me, and it's like there's nothing else in the whole world. I think that, despite all of my flaws, right then and there, I had somethin' perfect. I could've done that every Sunday night."

"Sounds nice."

"It was. We go back to my place after that, and we're, you know."

"Yeah, ugh."

"Get over it. It was our first time. I settle down after a few hours, rest, take a breath, and like. Ty looks nervous. I ask them, 'What's wrong, babe? Are you okay?' and they say, 'I'm sorry, Lott, I don't think I can sleep in the same bed as you.' And I say shoot, why not, and they're pointing at their spikes, and they're starting to cry, and I go 'nononono babe, it's okay. I actually. I have something.'" She's shaking.

"Oh!! The room!" My breathing comes back to me.

Greer is smiling, but her fist is clenched, and I can see her jaw straining. "Yes, the room. I bring them to the room, and it's sparse but it's nice, and they're so happy, and I'm so happy. I kiss them, my heart is swelling, I put on the new sheets for them, I got them special made so it's not gonna rip up if they move over," and she's barely choking it back. "They go to bed, I wish them goodnight, I leave the door a little bit open. I just. I looked back then at the door and I thought about how this could be my future. And—God. I just. I should've. God." She is sitting up now, her face in her hands. I've never seen her so pale.

I reach out, putting my hands on hers. "What? Oh no, it's okay, it's okay." Come on. Let's get through this.

"I—oh. Oh god." She puts a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders heave. "I didn't set an alarm. It was—It was ten, when we both woke up. On a Monday." The tears have fully covered her face at this point.

"No. No, stop. The games."

"Yeah. I'm gonna. Good lord." Her breathing is shallow, rapid, like it won't ever get a chance to have air again.

"Are you gonna throw up?"

"I might—" She runs over to the trash can, but she doesn't manage to get anything up. She just stares into it, heaving, trying desperately to push it all out, get it out of her stomach, and her tears cascade down into the bag as she desperately attempts to breathe in between sobbing and spasming. Her muscles desperately contract, seeking a release, seeking oxygen, seeking relief.

I come up behind her and pull her away when she stops. "You don't have to finish the story." Hands on her shoulders. God, Greer, I'm so sorry I made you do this.

"No—I just, no. I gotta." She breathes, haggard and broken, the air like little shards of broken glass. 

"Really, it's okay." I can feel it hurting deep in her chest.

She gives me a tired look, breathing in and out, and flashes me a weak smile. God, she doesn't have to do that anymore. "Yeah. I know."

I sit with my back against a locker, helpless. How am I meant to do this with her? I couldn't help my own family with grief if I wanted. I've known her for a week.

"So. I just. We go out and I'm driving as fast as I can. I'm sayin' sorry, they're breathin' heavy, we know we're gonna be in trouble with the coach, I'm gonna pitch the game as an apology, it's gonna be okay, we're gonna figure it out." 

She's rapid now, just forcing the story out. I can't do anything. I already know what comes next.

"We get there, and the game just ended, and we're sitting in the locker room getting berated by coach, and we think everything is fine, we just have to do cleanup duty for a month." Frantic exhales. "Ty looks relieved, I'm kind of just okay with it, we both walk out to the dugout. Ziwa's there," Her hand's on her forehead now, "pissing a fit, yelling at me about how the umpires have been crazy lately and I can't keep doing this and how I'm gonna get in trouble and I'm just getting more and more pissed off, then they leave 'cause the next game is gonna start, then, oh fuck, I just. They get out to plate and I just see the fire. Fuck. God." No.

"I'm so sorry, Greer." No.

"Oh my god. It's all my fucking fault." No. God. "I've been so scared to tell you, tell myself, I haven't even. I haven't thought about it til today. I'm, I'm living—I'm livin' a fuckin' pipe dream. I'm livin' in a goddamn fantasy and I just can't do it, I can't come here anymore it's just so... It's just. I'm fucking crying over the ashes—" 

"No, stop, stop. You don't—you didn't. You don't have to go over this part."

"I just." 

"Yeah." Come on. This doesn't have to be you. I know you now. It's okay.

"I'm a mess."

"You're not." Come on.

She's standing over me again, just like on that sidewalk, and I feel the warmth of that spilled coffee all over my hands again. "I am! Don't you see me right now?! Can't you look at me and tell? I run away from this field every single day, I run away from the people who depend on me, I run away from my fears. I'm a fucking coward and I stay in my house every day and pretend like playing with my little projects and waxing poetic about the system is going to keep me from stepping onto the diamond and some day I'll have meet the fire, and I DON'T WANT TO DIE, I can't die, I've been alive for so little time, and everyone else out there needs someone to lead them but Ty isn't there."

"Greer, I—"

"No, no. Stop. Please —I just —"

And she gets up, and walks away from me, and shuts the door behind her, gently.


	12. Too Young for This

The doctor comes in to check on me after a while. When she asks me how I feel, I respond honestly.

"Numb?"

"There's no pain." Whatever's going on with my arm, gods, I wish I knew. It just doesn't feel important right now.

Her hair doesn't really move the way hair is supposed to. It's like it's being pushed and pulled. Her glasses keep shining in my eyes. Reflecting too much light. She stands in front of me like a goddamn monolith. My only barrier to get home.

Home. Had I just ruined home? Is Greer going to be there when I get back? Had I just wrecked my chances?

"Do you need a ride?" she asks me, peering into my eyes.

"What?"

"I'm not going to give you one," she continues, sitting down in front of me. "But Ortiz is a sucker for sad kids like you."

I blink. "Are you. A player?"

She snorts. "Everyone who can walk into this locker room is a player," she says, her eyes flicking up and down. "Except you, I guess." 

I just sit there quietly. What is there to say?

The stillness of the air in the locker room settles like heavy sandbags across my shoulders—behind my eyes. A dull, gentle ache in the back of my head. A ringing sound deep in my ear canals.

A sigh. "You don't have to act so moody. It's not like she's going anywhere."

I look up.

She looks down her nose at me. Just over the glasses I see those verdant eyes. "Are you going to say anything?"

"Uh, sorry—"

"Conversation is happening. Two people need to talk."

"I'm sorry I'm acting so upset!" I shout. "I just, like... don't know how to deal with this situation."

"Tch." She sits back, taking a sidelong look through the squat window above us. "If any of us knew how to deal with Greer, the world would be a lot more peaceful." She sits there, her lips pursed, her hands folded in her lap, one over the other. "You can't help the nature of some people."

Why does she constantly sound like she's putting people down? "What, you have problems with her too?"

"I think the nature of Greer is to cause problems." She looks back at me, but only with her eyes. "Aside from the fact that she doesn't show out to games anymore, doesn't talk to us, and barely comes to practice? I think she chews gum with her mouth open, and that disgusts me." Her voice drips with a sarcasm thicker than blood.

I laugh, but the sound that comes out feels more than hollow. "Can you blame her? After what she went through?"

Now she turns her full face. "Yes." Now she really looks at me.

I can't bring myself to look back at her. I can't blame Greer. She's been through tragedy, she's grieving, she's going through a complicated situation. Her girlfriend just died. What could any of these people know? 

The doctor stands up. "Look. The only reason I'm sticking around is to make sure you don't hurt yourself. If you want to go, go." She walks up to the window. I notice the light beaming in cascades through the glass and refracts itself across her face and neck. "Don't move the arm, take the painkillers, you'll be good in a few weeks." And she doesn't look back at me.

That numbness. I can't tell from shock, from fear, from cold. I can't tell if it's cause I'm still damp. "I'm sorry," I start, not knowing exactly what for, but knowing that I didn't mean to make her feel this way. "I'm new. I just don't know what's going on."

"Yeah, I know." She looks over her shoulder. "You're still young."

"That's not what I meant."

"That's what I meant." She turns around. "Do you even have a driver's license?"

"Yeah, I—"

"Too young."

"What?"

"You're too young to go through this kind of trauma."

"I'm an adult, and—"

"Hardly."

"What do you know?"

"I'm a doctor." And she turns around again.

I'm too tired to even feel indignant. I lay back down on the bed. The pillow isn't even soft. The mattress isn't even comfortable. This blanket is scratchy and my hands are pruning and dry, and my face is too hot and too wet right now, and it hurts to breathe, but I can't stop crying into the air. She's right. I'm a blubbering baby. I'm a child and I run away from everything. I ran away from home. "I couldn't even do that right," I force through.

"What?" Sharp, harsh.

"R-Run away." I sniffle.

"...What?" Soft, quiet.

My free arm comes up and wipes off my eyes. "I had to get away and get somewhere safe. And I finally found it, and we had donairs, and we were gonna go through a dungeon, and it was gonna be an adventure, and they make me feel so safe." Gods, I have nobody to talk to. "I ruined it."

And, for a minute. those words just hang in the air above me. Etch themselves into the ugly ceiling tile. Grows eyes and looks back down at me with disgust. Stares me down. I stare back.

The door creaks open. I turn my stupid, crying head to look at a heavyset man with a giant beard walk through, tepid step after tepid step, shutting the door quietly behind him. A soft voice emerges. "Hey, Mooney." 

There's no response from the doctor, just a crackling, quiet whisper underneath tense silence, and she walks away from the window, towards me, and reaches out. I wince before she even touches me, and she freezes, and for a second we dare not make eye contact, dare not look at each other. Then she just walks on by. "Morse, can you take care of them?"

"I mean, yeah, Doc, that's why you called me here." He smiles sheepishly, a hand rubbing behind his head, scratching hair. "It was a bit out of the blue, but I got here as soon—" and then the door closes. "Huh." He looks back at me.

He is... so gentle.


	13. Getting Better

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: food and descriptions of hunger, dirty places

"My name is, uh, Ortiz," he says, as if he is unsure of it, hands running over themselves in an endless cycle of capturing warmth and losing it again. My eyes can't stop shifting from him, to the walls of the hallway with faded photographs, leftover scuff marks on the ground that haven't been wiped up yet. "Um... do you have a name? That I can call you?"

Oh. I haven't thought about that in a while. I turn to my own hands, looking at the palms, watching the lines up and down for a minute. Is there an answer in there? A good one?

"You, uh, you don't have to say anything. Right now. For your name. It's okay." I look up at him, and he smiles, with his eyes and underneath his beard. I can see the whole thing shift up at the edges when he does.

"Thanks." I say. It shouldn't have been as hard of a question, and I kind of hate him for letting me get away with it. "It's complicated."

"Yeah," he says, chuckling. "I bet. Names are tough stuff. For everyone."

We keep moving forward. I pass by a glass display case, dusty and untouched, and I stop by it for a minute. Morse keeps walking, then comes back when he sees that I've stopped.

"Oh, uh. Ha. It's pretty gross." He reaches out and wipes off some of the dust. "I think... yeah. Yeah, there's an old glove in here." He wipes off the dust on the name plate. "These back hallways, uh, you know. They don't get walked through, except by us, and it's, you know. It's a lot to clean."

He's right. There's so much floor space between the locker room and the public-facing parts of the arena. We had been walking for, maybe ten minutes at this point, towards the concessions stand, where Morse said he had nachos, and I could really use the nachos right now.

"It's uh.. It's from 1968." Morse blows on it, and then is immediately engulfed in a cloud of dust bunnies and dirty air, coughing and waving his hand in front of his face.

I bend down when the air is clear and Morse is okay, taking in the glove. Cascades Merritt, 1968. The glove that won the championship. I frown. "I thought the Talkers hadn't won a championship yet?" I ask, standing back up.

"Well," he says, combing desperately through the thick and tangled mass of hair to get all the dirt out, "it's not like, uh, it's not the same team?" He claps his hands together a couple of times, more dust in the air, he sneezes. "Talkers today.. we're an Internet team. Back then they were, uh, regional. Halifax Talkers."

"Oh!"

"Yeah. They tell us, sometimes. Canada's the home of Blaseball. Or somethin'. Like, we used to be more competitive up here, or like, the whole of Canada did, than anywhere else. Or, um, we say so." He kind of smiles, with a half-hearted sort of pride.

"I didn't realize there was so much history."

"Yeah, it's uh. Well, it's complicated. There was, um, a lot more to it before all the water came up, back in the day." We start walking again, moving forward. "I don't, want to, you know, bore you, or anything." He looks down. I can tell he's nervous.

I smile. "No, it's okay. It's really interesting." I can tell he's trying hard. Does he do this with everyone?

He smiles too.

We start walking together, and as Morse goes on about the history, his stutter and awkward pause slowly drift away. I watch him grow into an animated role, smile on his face, going on about the Talkers' history, with me nodding along. I try my best to absorb the information—history was never my strong suit.

"So Trevino and Alstott bought the arena back from the Spittle Candy Company and wound up cleaning it all up. There hadn't been any Blaseball in the Maritimes for years. So, uh, we wound up seeding this team from the ground up, and even through all the... you know. People passing away. The team hasn't changed much, and we've still managed to make big differences in the area 'cause of it. We're getting kids into Blaseball too, and I can tell that they really love it..."

It's so different from Greer. I can tell he really loves splorts—it's almost like a part of his personality. "Wait, so, I have a question."

"Oh! What, what is it?" He pauses and starts shifting his hands over themselves again.

I feel bad for interrupting his flow. "Well, Greer...it seems like she has a different kind of idea of what it means to be a player. Different from you, at least." I shrug. "How come?"

He looks down at the vacuous hallway before us. We must have crossed the entire perimeter of the arena at this point; we've seen tiling of all different colors and shapes, old murals faded with time. Alligator cracks runs along old, unvarnished paint, and concrete pores litter the walls. The dirt and mess here is a little more recent, a little more new. "Well, I mean..." He puts a hand to his chin. "I don't think you should, uh, put a lot of stock in what I have to say here. But Blaseball... you know, you don't really get a choice in, you know, whether or not you get to, uh, play. But, uh, I feel like... It's okay to make your own choices in it."

"Huh?"

"Well, like—and I don't. I know Greer looks at this, a little, uh, differently? Her reaction to it all.. it's real. But! I feel like. I can choose, you know, to be optimistic. To love it, even though... it's not really, maybe, what I wanted to do."

Huh. "What did you want to do?"

"Oh!" He brightens up. His shoulders relax. "I wanted to, like. I wanted to stay in my hometown and, be, uh, a teacher. For young kids," he says, his face beaming. "I get to, you know, do a little of that now, with the Blittle Leagues and all, but I wanted to teach literature, uh, history, heh." He scratches his head, putting his other hand into his pocket. "I didn't, really, get a choice in the matter. I'm not that good, per se, but I'm still a Talker. And I gotta make of that what I will."

"Stockholm syndrome." Her voice echoes from down the other side. We both look down and see bright neon red, green, orange, blue, rippling and overlapping, a huge marker for the concessions stand—the loud sound of crunching. Greer's eating nachos. She doesn't even bother to finish chewing when she starts her next sentence. "Look, I'm not saying that you can't love Blaseball, but you gotta be honest with yourself, Morse. It trapped you in this situation."

"Well, I..." I can see his cheeks go red. "I don't know, Greer. Maybe it's more complicated, right? Destiny, and all that."

A swallow. A loud slurp from a drink. "Well," she starts, but my brain doesn't register the rest—I smell the melted cheese, the pickled jalapeños, the fresh-cut onions. Greasy food—my stomach starts rumbling, and I fumble for a second, suddenly being full of aching hunger.

"Shoot! Hey, Greer—"

"Yeah, I got it. Come on."

They take me on either side, Greer putting my good arm around her shoulder. My hand drifts over her shoulder, settling somewhere along her arm. I didn't even know you could be muscular in your neck. Morse spins a chair around and seats me, and then starts breaking up the nachos into smaller bits and mixing the toppings in.

"What the hell are you doing, Morse?" Greer, says, 

"I'm making it easier to eat," he mutters, barely looking up. "They can't, uh, eat chips. They'll get, the, the cast dirty."

"This is an evil way to eat nachos," she snorts, sitting down roughly next to me. "There's an experience here, man. You need'ta pick up the chip with all the toppings, eat it, balance it out with some less dressed chips. It's variety."

He starts chuckling, and slides me the plate and fork, and I don't even care if it's nacho sacrilege, I'm stuffing myself and feeling tortilla shards scrape up the roof of my mouth. Between forkfuls, I manage to get out, "I can't believe you left me in the locker room and started eating my nachos."

Greer's laughter echoing through the hallways is the best sound in the world right now.


	14. Food Coma

I lean back, clean plate in front of me, staring up at the dull, fluorescent lights in the ceiling. They dot themselves in regular patterns, unfitting for the curvature of the stadium; fitting a square peg into a round hole. In fact, it seemed like the whole stadium halls had odd architecture—tile didn't line up correctly with each other, there were closed off-drainage pipes that were too high for water to reach, and straight metal handrails walked in the corner of the ceiling, far beyond where any person of regular size could reach and hold.

Pillars jutted out at random intersections, blocking flow of traffic, and every criss-crossing hallway seemed identical. "Ariadne," I mutter. "You'd be having a field day right now."

"What?" Greer has a lone jalapeño hanging out from her bottom lip, seemingly wrung around the top of one of her jabbing, jagged teeth. Could you consider every tooth an incisor if they were all sharp, or do you think you'd have to come up with a new name for it? "Hellooo," she says, waving a hand in my face, pink hair swishing. She always moved as if she had to shunt her whole body into the energy of the thing.

"It's nothing," I say, shutting my eyes. For a minute the reddish-black darkness inside is the most comforting feeling in the world. I could probably fall asleep right now.

Then, my stomach groans.

"...I'm still hungry."

"Same. Morse, did you bring your boat here?" Greer turns her neck to twist over her shoulder, craning to look at Morse, whose hands were folded over his stomach in a pompous style of comfort and elegance.

A snore responds from the chair. Two plates of delicious cheesy goodness will do that to you, I guess.

She laughs, but quietly, taking care not to break the gentle air that seems to have enveloped all of us. One of her legs stretches up to rest her foot on the table; the other spreads out in an egregious display of space. 

"You're flexible," I say, burping immediately after, the rushing feeling in my lungs uncontrollable, the taste of black beans and onions flooding my mouth again. "Sorry."

She keeps laughing, barely keeping it to a whisper, rasping and clutching her stomach. Her leg pulls back in and she almost balls up—but as the moment fades, she stretches back out, and her poise becomes relaxed. I didn't think about how much she reminds me of a cat, but it's plainly evident. You can never tell what she's going to do next, and the possibilities sit on your mind like gentle rocks perfectly balanced on a lily pad. Those moments of peace can shatter just easily as the surface of the water, and ripple out across everything around it; but for the minute you're entranced, staring at the relaxed muscles of your roommate, in repose, even after stepping on her tail earlier.

It'd be kind of messed up if she had a tail, huh.

She catches my eyes drifting towards her waist and grins.

I quickly look away and smile. She snickers again.

"So, what're you feelin'? We have pizza at home."

"Yeah, but I could definitely go for something else."

"Donair?" She's probably drooling.

I scratch my head. "No, I think we should save that for special occasions."

More teeth. "Makin' traditions now, huh?"

"...I think so," my eyes flicking back over to hers. "If that's okay."

Her face laxes from the tension for just a second. I can tell today has had an effect on her—she's just not talking as much as she would normally, and I know she wouldn't've cared about Morse sleeping if she didn't feel awkward about what happened earlier.

But still. I'm not gonna press on it right now. We've known each other for like, a week, and quite honestly, I think we both have issues we need to work out. 

"Yeah, I think that's a fine idea," she finally says, and I see the tightness in her shoulders let up, just a bit.

"What kind of other food do you guys have here?"

"Hmmm..." She puts a hand to her chin for a minute.

"Have you not eaten anything except for donairs and pizza here?" I ask, incredulous.

"They're really good! But I definitely know a spot. It's a lobster place."

"Lobster?" Huh. I don't think I've ever had that before. 

"It's a shellfish. What? You never had good seafood?"

Deadpan, I look into her eyes. "I was in the desert. There's no sea."

"Sure, but what, no water?"

Are you joking? "No fish in the water."

She shakes her head. "Tch. Sounds like hell."

Yeah.

She stands up, moving over to Ortiz, tugging his beard. "Hey buddy, come on, we're gonna go to Salty's. You gotta get some." Surprisingly, he doesn't even wake up the first couple of times—it takes a hair being pulled to even open his eyes.

"I'm up, I'm up..." He stretches his arms out, big, lanky things, jaw practically unhinged in the most vacuous yawn I've ever seen. "What're you sayin'?"

"Best lobster in town."

"Pretty near 'bout half," he says, the utter gibberish muttered from a sleepy man's breath passing through the air and landing flat in front of me.

"What?" I say, thoroughly confused.

"He's a bit stunned right now," Greer says, shaking her head with a wry spring.

"Sorry. Salty's?"

"Sure as," she responds.

"I brought the boat. I think that, she's uh, floating now."

"Who's she?" I desperately whisper.

"She's floating now? 'Magine!"

"Sure is."

"Are you both okay?" I interrupt.

They both stare at me with placid, confused expressions, looking back at each other with knowing grins.

Then, in unison: "You didn't Google the local customs?"

"I ████ing hate both of you."

Laughter bounces its ways through the hallway behind me, as I step off towards neon blue exit signs. My face is flushed but I know I want to laugh; my heart was hurting but is nothing short of full at this point. Everything's going to be okay.


	15. la croix tastes like... well, you'll find out.

"I really wasn't expecting the boat to be this big."

"Well," Morse says, "it's not. At least, not by the standards around here."

"Isn't this, a yacht, or something?" I ask, incredulous. It sits before us, loosely tied to an unstable fence fixture, two stories tall. An open space lounges out the back of the main body, sleek and polished, glossily painted; an empty hot tub filled with fishing rods, boxes, and nets clutters nearby several long, comfortable lounge chairs. Stairs on either side seem to lead up to what is the interior portion of the boat; a phrase that boggles me still. "I didn't even know they made boats this big."

"Yeah, Morse has a pretty great ride." Greer walks past me, eyes closed, casually walking towards the water with her arms behind her neck. "It has wheels, too. We can take it up the roads if we have a clean entry point."

"It's not a good fishing boat, though..." Morse grumbles. "Have to, you know, take out the dingy. To catch anything."

"Do you fish a lot?" I ask. His image suddenly comes together for me: Morse is just a fishing dad. I've heard about them in stories.

"Yeah, uh, sometimes. Small stuff... There aren't. Too many big fish 'round here."

"Oh." Yeah, I guess the big ones, just... hide in dungeons. Ugh.

"I still think it's pretty weird that you fish when, y'know, half of your friends are fish people?" Greer says, stopping just before the gap between concrete docks and the boat's entrance.

Morse, sudden panic in his eyes, looks up and starts floundering. "I'm sorry! Shoot, maybe I should think about that, uh, a little more often..."

She laughs, short, quick. "I'm just giving you trouble, Morse. We're goin' to eat lobster, remember?"

Morse mumbles, deflated, "Yeah, but, uh, those are just ocean bugs..." He walks forward and hops the distance onto the boat, reaching in and putting out a ramp for Greer and I to walk in. 

She takes a seat on one of the lounge chairs. "Do you have anythin' to drink?"

"Yeah," he says, turning towards the stairs. "Be right back."

His footsteps clatter against the aluminum steps as he walks up towards the captain's deck. The captain's quarters? The stern? 

"Boats are weird," I say, breaking a gentle silence.

"Seems a little rude to her, doesn't it?" 

"Who's her?"

"The boat. She's Morse's best friend, pretty much," she says, gesturing all around her. She is fully lounging now, both legs on the chair, one knee up, head resting against the angled back. "Never see 'em without each other."

I stand on the edge of the boat, looking out into the water, gently rolling over itself endlessly to touch and shift against the surface of the metal intrusion. Every now and again a stronger tide folds in, splashing hard against the wall, only to fall backwards deep into the murky underneath. 

I wonder, sometimes, why water moves the way it does. Constantly overlapping, constantly in cycles. It constantly rushes over itself in the haste to whip against something else, or itself.

I lean down, letting my good forearm rest on the railing, gentle, watching the movement. I look deep and see small, dark shapes in the water, haphazard and jerky in their movement. Fish? Trash?

Halifax isn't the only underwater place in Canada, right? Why is it Sunken, then?

The rumble of the ship engine starting causes whatever was lurking underneath the darker parts of the water to scatter away, and the water to begin churning violently near the fan engines. I almost fall over when it begins to shift; not realizing that something big moving even at any speed is gonna put me on the ground.

Greer catches me before I lose my footing. I didn't even notice her get up. She's careful not to put pressure on my sling; her hands gently navigate around them, firm, but not aggressive. I fell back into her chest—she didn't even move.

I smile at her. "What? You thought I was going to fall?"

She smiles back, firmly steadying me back on my feet, both hands on my waist. "You were definitely gonna fall. No sea legs on you." I grip the railing. Greer hasn't really moved away from my space.

"Good thing I've got you around," I respond. "Personal servant ready to literally help me walk."

Greer grins, and this time I see the smile in her eyes, properly. Then she looks at her hands, and she blushes. She blushes. Should I press the advantage? I bet I can really rile her up.

No. What? I can't do this act. This was cute before I knew about Ty. Why is she so close to me? "Hey," I say. "You okay?"

Her smile fades from her face as she makes eye contact with me. I'm close enough that even in the dark of Halifax, I can see her cheeks ease, her mouth gently slide down her face, somewhere between a pout and a frown. "Yeah, 'm fine."

I take one of her hands in my only good one, sidestepping to make some distance, but still trying to keep her close. "We talked a lot. That was really hard for you."

"Tch."

"What?"

"Talkin' about feelings isn't hard... just. Difficult."

"That's the same thing, Greer."

"No, I mean..." She groans. "Look, you and I have been friends for maybe a week now, and I gotta say, I've confessed a whole lot to you that I wouldn't be doin' for pretty much anyone else." She looks past me, up towards the steering place. The captain's wheel? "Morse, him and I, we used to be good pals. Halifax locals. Go to all the places together." A step back by her takes her just far enough for me to let go of her hand. "Recently I haven't even talked to him about all of this. I've been fussy."

"I don't blame you."

"I know you don't. But frankly, Ziwa does. And I'm bettin' that a few of the other Talkers... I mean." She rests both elbows on the railing, looking out into the water, her eyes scanning the ripples and waves. The froth of tiny wave crashing into tiny wave transforms the movement into roiling, minuscule chaos. "Maybe I can't talk about this anymore. At least, not right now."

Shoot. "Okay." I just don't want you to feel like I'm not here for you. "If you need time, we've got time." I feel like I owe you so much. You gave me so much. "I still haven't found a job." It's not like I need one. 

She smiles a bit at that. "Not like you need one." Seriously scary how she does that.

"I guess not. Still, you don't keep food in the house."

"Why would I? She doesn't need to eat."

I groan. "Who is she this time?"

She laughs. "The house."

I roll my eyes. "Look, I couldn't be happy eating from two different pizza places for the rest of my life. Not too mention, I'm pretty sure the only alcohol you've bought is cheap alcohol."

"Why would you pay more money to get the same drunk?"

"She's, uh, she's got a point." Morse's steps click clack down the side of the boat, coming towards us. "But, um. Some of us drink, for the flavor, you know?"

"Flavor?" she says. "It's alcohol. It just tastes like bad."

"Why do you drink it, then?" I say. "Maybe the good stuff tastes better."

"Maybe?" She looks at me with an eyebrow raised, leaning on one hand, her arm tensed against the railing for balance. "You telling me you haven't tried the so-called 'good stuff', and you're lecturing me about how to drink?"

Damn. The last time I drank was at a wedding. It was two years ago. "Uh, I mean—"

"No no no. You've got some explaining to do."

Morse smiles, his beard puffing out as he hands out cans of something I haven't seen before. Is this French? "To, uh," he starts. "To our new friend." He gestures the can in my direction. My heart feels so warm, all of a sudden. What an absolute sweetheart.

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Greer says, gesturing wildly. "Have you even had a Purple Jesus? What about a Jägerbomb?" 

"Is that French?" I think I took Spanish in school. I think.

"You're hopeless." She shakes her head, cracking open the can, and immediately flipping it vertical—then she's dropping it, spitting out the frothy, bubbly liquid coming out. "What the hell, Morse? What is that?"

Morse looks at me with a sudden panic, then back at Greer. "Uh, it's this new drink. La Croix. People have been drinking it a lot."

"Where's the alcohol?" Her posture is hunched, aggressive. She steps towards Morse with a jabbing finger. "You used to have rum on this ship. I know it's around here somewhere." In a flash, she's sprinting up the steps two at a time, jumping into the aft ship deck—I need a nautical manual, I swear on the gods—with the frantic urgency of a wolf hunting old deer.

"Lott, you, you have to wait, I—" He looks back at me. "Sorry. Be—be back in a minute." Morse runs off after her, fizzy water can in hand.

I crack mine open and take a sip. It's tastes like the air in a lemon tree grove. Barely flavored. "At least it's not alcohol," I say, to nobody in particular. "Dodged that bullet."

I wonder if Greer gets more or less wild drinking.


	16. not the only roommate with trauma

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: descriptions of dead bodies, gore, body horror, and alcohol. emotional trauma.

Greer had managed to find, apparently, an old whiskey bottle left underneath dusty fishing supplies and several deflated pool tubes. I asked her whether or not her sense of smell contributed to her ability to find it, and had said that she drank to forget how to smell—and quite honestly, I was so stunned by that fact that I wasn't able to come up with a complete response. Then, she laughed, and I felt that same warmth in my chest again, at knowing we could still joke and be friends.

Who knows if I could be like that with anyone at home? I think about my old room sometimes, my old posters, pictures in frames, probably collecting dust. My parents were never people to intrude and clean in my space, but would they make the exception for me if they thought I would come back at some point? I remember what they looked like when I left. I'm not even sure they're the same parents anymore.

Good gods. It's a wonder I'm still able to find comfort in warmth. It's no wonder why I came to someplace so cold.

I wonder, sometimes, about going back to the Moab. Is the Hellmouth really all that different, did I run away for a real reason? Or was the shock of my home being so different all of a sudden enough to make me want to never come back?

I remember the day that my house caught on fire from the heat that burst the air into flames. Most folks weren't used to it, and I had my room, and I was protected, until we could all breathe it again. I still remember seeing the bodies in the street from when people caught fire from the inside.

They told me in my science class, senior year... this kid. His name was Jeremy and everyone called him JJ. JJ was this mess of an attention span that always looked everywhere, spoke out at the wrong times, asked the wrong questions, and had the wrong answers. The issue wasn't, though, that he was wrong—he was just never right at the right time. And he blurts out one time, after we're talking about decomposition, he just says "did you all know oxygen is killing us?"

I say "that's nuts", and he insists it's true, that oxygen is the main cause for our eventual decline into old age and our falling apart beyond that. Imagine breathing the very thing that we depend on that kills us at the same time. Then, imagine if it just flashed up in a blaze right inside your lungs when you were coming back from the grocery store or something.

You got your children their favorite yogurt cup and then you became an inferno from the inside-out.

The worst part was that you couldn't even make out the bodies from the insides anymore. You couldn't tell bones, everything was dust. It was awful, wasn't it? Who did I lose out there? Nobody could tell me.

Why do I want to go back home so much?

I'll never forget the day my dad decided to go back outside for the first time since the Hellmouth opened up, and he came back with three more eyes and one more hand, and then took my mother outside and they disappeared, and then my mom came back different too, and then they kept just talking to me like I was going to classes on Monday.

Is this what her life is like? When did she know she had to play the game?

I didn't vote to open the Book. I would've voted against it if I could. I remember doing the betting that first season, the little hit of dopamine pleasure I got from gambling fake currency out and then just trying to vote for evolutions or something that wasn't going to do something that sounded awful.

How come I was the only one with the right gut feeling? Why did that decree pass?

I had so much control over Greer Lott, more control than I have in my hands right now. I could open up a laptop casing, flute to the Moist Talkers, vote for whatever decree makes her grow two new arms, makes her gigantic, makes her team have two extra players, whatever the hell, and somehow my will would be enacted democratically. 

I could never do it again.

Greer catches me crying in the corner of the on-boat bathroom, and doesn't have any words for me, except for the awkward stammering and gentle touches on my shoulder to let me know she's there. I'm glad she's as messed up as I am right now. I know that's a sick, disgusting thing to say, but it's true. I could not imagine being the only roommate with trauma.


End file.
